The Perfect Fool by Stewart Lee

Much to the vexation of my partner, and not that Stewart Lee cares (or pretends to care), nor that he wants my attention or praise, but I have a lot of time for comedian, producer, writer and director Stewart Lee, even after considering this review. Not counting reading time, I’ve recently committed 12 hours to watching, for free, his entire Comedy Vehicle* on the iPlayer from start to finish, and have illegally downloaded** and watched nearly all of his available DVDs. I enjoy enormously his regular BJ-lampooning opinion pieces in the Observer (which I read for free online) and I paid 50p in a charity shop for his first annotated collection of scripts (one of which was from a show in Chapter Arts Centre in Cardiff in which I suspect I was an unsuspecting audience member). I’ve not yet made headway in finding a cheap bootleg copy of Jerry Springer: The Opera but it’s on my bucket list. Therefore, I was pleasantly surprised to find this book, his first (implying there’ll be another, as yet unrealised) novel on the charity bookshelves of my local and favourite pub***, again, modestly priced at 50p.

You might therefore believe I was pre-disposed to like it, especially considering what good value for money it represented.

I can however, honestly and hand-on-heart, say I was underwhelmed.

With Lee, it’s hard to know where his uniquely crafted shows end and the real, or if you like, non-show Lee begins. He has mentioned on occasion during performances that he is interested in the Hopi Indian peoples of North and Central American, particularly their ancient Pueblo or sacred clown traditions, and although at the time I didn’t think he’d done it for anything other than pseudo-intellectual comic effect, he’s only gone and written a novel with these traditions hovering near the heart of it. The eponymous Perfect Fool could be one of a trio of individuals, all portraying different aspects of a Pueblo clown – the naïve and confused amnesiac, the stoned and transcendental acid-rocker, Bob the…. Hopi Clown. Or it could be one of the knobs playing guitar in a Dire Straits tribute band called the Sultans of Streatham.

No, on second thoughts, it’s almost certainly Bob Nequatewa, the Hopi Indian clown.

The stories of these and other characters, including a Mason hitman, a crazed religious sheriff on the trail of a serial killer and a former porn star driving across America, all begin separately and unconnected, but eventually converge on an aircraft hangar in Arizona, and the discovery of a secret so huge it could turn the world upside down. It’s funny in places, although the so-called comic relief of Sid and Danny is least funny of all, and it’s clear Lee really might have an interest in the clowning traditions of Central America, but as a quest novel, it loses credibility, ironically, when it turns out we’re expected to believe that the Holy Grail really was launched into space in an attempt to protect the divine bloodline of Jesus Christ from corruption and exploitation. Time for another peyote capsule methinks.

It’s not so bad that I’d give up on Lee, but perhaps I had loftier ambitions for his literary career. I’d even have accepted a dark and twisted offering a la Rob Newman, eschewing all attempts at humour. But this feels a bit of an uncomfortable blend of slightly ill-suited ingredients into a suspicious stew, and although I don’t feel strongly enough against it to counsel avoidance, I was hoping for more.

Maybe instead of coming over here, sullying our literary traditions and conventions with his intellect, British comedy’s brightest and best mind should have stayed on the comedy circuit and used his knowledge of Hopi Indian clowning techniques to make British comedy more humorously prosperous….


*There’s no guarantee it’ll still be available on the BBC iPlayer when you get around to clicking on that link, but I live in hope.

**Just in case he is looking for praise and stumbles across this post…

***Picture credit to David Oldham, July 2019, and screen-grabbed from Google Pictures relating to said public house. Spot the author… No, not Stewart Lee, FFS.

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